


Blood, Sweat and Deers

by Otterly



Series: deer/tiger idiots [3]
Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 21:38:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17774663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otterly/pseuds/Otterly
Summary: Jamie attempts to make salmon wellington for his best friend.





	Blood, Sweat and Deers

**Author's Note:**

> You should probably read Proximity 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/14834321
> 
> Other than that, enjoy <3

 

> _“Why are you calling me from the bathroom?”_
> 
> _“I realized yesterday that I never had a goth phase.”_
> 
> _“Good.”_
> 
> _“No but, should I have? That’s a rhetorical question. Kind of. Point is: I think it would have been good for me, which is why I’m experimenting with a goth look right now, in case you were wondering.”_
> 
> _“A black hoodie and black jeans with rips in them isn’t goth.”_
> 
> _“I know. That’s why I also have eyeliner.”_
> 
> _“...Okay?”_
> 
> _“I want you to apply it for me.”_
> 
> _“...”_
> 
> _“...”_
> 
> _“Fine. But you owe me. You’re doing my homework when school starts.”_

* * *

“I’m gonna starve,” says Cameron, and I look over at him with a raised brow.

I’ve been thinking about the past for the past few days. Maybe it’s cause the first week of school was a month ago and tenth grade still feels all new. Maybe I’m also feeling super nostalgic. A lot _has_ happened since middle school. Cameron’s put on muscle—not too much, lest I feel completely inadequate—and he’s grown a little taller.

Nah. A little’s kind of underselling it. He’s got a full like, two heads on me. It’s really apparent when we’re standing next to each other, which is nearly all the time.

Cameron tilts his head. “Are you going to ask me why, or are you going to keep looking at me like that?”

“Um,” I say, rubbing one of my eyes. “Sorry. Yeah. Why?”

“My mom’s going on a business trip. Learning how to make some tropical stuff for the summer. I’m gonna be alone for a week or two. Also, are you alright?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You were staring at me.”

“I felt like staring.”

“...Why?”

I blink, and decide not to answer. “I can cook!”

Cameron crosses his arms. “I know, I know, I should have taken that class with you. But cooking’s just like, not something that interests me and you get really mean when it comes to exact measurements—“

“No no no,” I shush him by putting my palm on his face and softly dragging it off, feeling his soft velvet nose rub against it. He really hates it when I do that. He leans back as far as he can and sputters and snorts. While he’s busy doing that I put a hand on my hip. “I meant that I could cook for you. While your mom’s gone, I mean.”

He’s blushing! That’s so cute.

I mean, hilarious. That’s really funny. Haha. He holds both of his paws to his nose and glares at me. “You. Cook. For me?”

“What, you think I couldn’t learn how to cook meat?”

“Not at all. Not even a little bit.”

“I’ve watched your mom make things like, a _billion_  times. You just like throw it onto the heat and then wait a little bit and then take it off!”

“Yeah,” Cameron nods, a mocking edge to his crackly voice. “Remember that time you puked after watching her debone an entire salmon?”

I gasp and get in his face, grabbing the collar of his sweater and tugging on it so he’s forced to get nice and close to my lips. “We were fourteen so that was two years ago and it was the first time I stayed over so I was super nervous already and I wasn’t prepared for it and you said you _would never mention it again!”_

For a second, Cameron looks genuinely scared. I almost switch gears entirely and begin to reassure him that I’m not actually that mad.

Then he starts laughing and my twitching nose gets to smell the oddly enticing scent of his gross tuna breath, coupled a slight undertone of that minty jasmine toothpaste I bought him, and I push him away, frowning.

“Alright,” he giggles, scritching at his neck with a claw. “I guess that’s fair enough. You can be my live-in cook for the rest of the week.”

I smile. “Great! Get ready for the best after-school meal of your entire life, you big dumb cat. You’re going to be begging for more.”

“I sure hope so.”

The way he looks at me before he heads to his next class makes me feel like I’m wearing one too many layers, but the sudden surge of heat quickly passes. It’s replaced by determination.

I check the time: two o’ clock. That gives me an hour and a half to get ingredients, get cooking and get some much deserved appreciation.

Let’s do this shit.

* * *

 

> _“Hello?”_
> 
> _“Hey! Let’s get drunk!”_
> 
> _“You’ve never had alcohol in your life.”_
> 
> _“Let’s get your mom to get us wine!”_
> 
> _“She’d tell your dad about it.”_
> 
> _“So you’re down?”_
> 
> _“No. Go to sleep. It’s two in the morning.”_

* * *

I can’t do this.

The wildcat on my phone screen slices into a fish, and I can’t stop myself from cringing with my entire body and soul. Is _my_  body that soft and fleshy? It’d be so easy someone to just, like, eat me, wouldn’t it?

Then the wildcat looks at the camera, winks, and he starts cutting the fish into nice, even slices.

I press the home button, minimizing the Zootube video, and lean back. The tips of my antlers bang against my locker.

There are little holes on the ceiling, as well as dried old gum and pencils lodged halfway through the plywood. I imagine that I’m playing connect-the-dots and the holes make a picture of me, perfectly cooking a fresh salmon from the market, and Cameron watching behind me with a smile.

I stop halfway through when I realize that there aren’t enough holes to make the picture.

“Why so sad, deerboy?” a blocky, but feminine voice says.

I look to my left and spot the worst reindeer in the world.

Zuri Vanderhoof. Almost Cameron’s height. Member (but not captain) of the girls’ volleyball, basketball _and_  ice hockey teams. Wearing her signature red bomber jacket with her varsity hoodie underneath, and black jeans for her bottoms.

I try not to look at her antlers.

I look at her antlers. They’re bigger than mine.

I hate Zuri.

“Don’t you have practice today?” I mumble.

“Cancelled,” she crouches. “What’s up?”

“I told Cameron I’d cook for him.”

“I thought he doesn’t like veggies?”

“He doesn’t.”

Zuri blinks. Processing. Processing. She breaks out into a grin the instant it registers _. “Ohhhhhhhhhhhh.”_

I roll my eyes. “Yeah.”

“Why aren’t you at the market, then?”

“Zootube,” I hold up my phone. “Looking up tutorials.”

She scoffs. “Eff that. Just buy a slab of fish and wing it.”

“You can’t just improvise cooking meat! It’s supposed to be like, super hard!”

She shrugs. “Can’t be _that_  hard.”

“Are _you_  gonna try to cook it?”

“No, dude. You’re the future housewife here.”

I can only glare.

* * *

 

> _“Cammie, I’m bored.”_
> 
> _“You’re bored? I have to write feedback for the rest of the presentations!”_
> 
> _“Peer feedback’s like ten marks. Chill. I had Mr. Hoofenweiser last semester. It’s like not even worth five percent.”_
> 
> _“What if I want that five percent?”_
> 
> _“Then go back inside. But you’re the one who came out after my text.”_
> 
> _“I thought it was an emergency. How can you see me?”_
> 
> _“You’re easily visible from the front doors. And it is an emergency! I’m bored. I’m gonna go and get a salad down the street at the Buck-ee’s.”_
> 
> _“Jamie, that’s gross. Gas station food’s gonna make you sick. Go to the mall.”_
> 
> _“I won’t unless you come with me.”_
> 
> _“Ugh.”_
> 
> _“I didn’t hear a no.”_
> 
> _“No, you didn't."_
> 
> _“Yay! I’ll pay for your cricket chips.”_
> 
> _“I don’t want chips. Or your money.”_
> 
> _“Feel free to get some ice cream, then.”_
> 
> _“Not getting ice cream.”_
> 
> _“Cinnamon bun?”_
> 
> _“...”_
> 
> _“Aw, don’t be embarrassed! Come here. Let’s get some munchies.”_

* * *

Don’t let the snow crusted outside and dope neon sign fool you—Fishtown Market _sucks._  It’s too big, and too crowded. It’s full of giant, smelly polar bears selling fish and probably drugs, but mostly fish. I have no idea why it’s not just, like, out in the open, because the only thing I can smell right now is fish, but—

Oh. The drugs. No one can smell anything when they’re in here.

That’s actually pretty clever.

It still sucks, though. Me and Zuri have been wandering around the long, continuous forest of predators in hopes of finding the guy who’ll give me a fish for free. And, let me tell you, I _really_  need it for free. No high school student can afford a fish at normal market price.

“Why did I let you bring me?” Zuri asks as we leave yet another row of stalls.

“I’m looking for Mr. Wolfney!”

“Doesn’t he sell howl?”

“He also sells fish,” I say. We stand still for a moment. Various predators float around us—polar bears in suits and tracksuits, wolves in matching trenchcoats, families picking out a special dinner for the night.

I see his sign across the market and grab Zuri’s wrist, pulling her with me as I duck and dodge the crowd, eventually ending up at a relatively large stall with a big sign reading “ALPHA WOLF FISHMONGERS” hanging above it.

But Wolfney isn’t there. It’s some lanky twentysomething year old wolf in a WUF hoodie.

I walk up to him. He mean mugs me. Good start to any conversation.

“Where’s Mr. Wolfney?” I ask?

His response is immediate. Trained. “You have no business with Mr. Wolfney. Did you want to buy a fish?”

I glance as the row of giant salmon on ice in front of him, and the sign behind it reading ‘60/20 lbs', and try my best to look cold and mature and serious. “I wouldn’t be asking for him if he didn’t know me.”

“Kid, just buy a fish or leave.”

God, this is exactly why I have Cameron with me when we go here. Or, better yet...

“Tell him that Alexandra needs him.”

There’s a glimmer of recognition in his eyes, but he shakes his head. “You’re not Alexandra.”

“Wooow,” I drone. “Very smart of you to notice that. I work for her.”

He squints. “She doesn’t hire prey.”

“She clearly fucking does if I’m here, so be a good boy and _fetch_  Mr. Wolfney for me!”

Crap. Probably shouldn’t have said that.

I hear Zuri snort in anxiousness beside me as the guy working the stall begins to snarl.

_“You two better get the f—"_

“Jamie!” a low, accented voice calls.

We both turn to see a tall, muscular wolf in a navy blue suit strutting up to us. I’ve never asked him, but he knows Cameron’s mom pretty well so I think he’s somewhere in his late thirties, and what a _very good_  thirty or so years he’s had.

I feel myself blushing and I go up to greet him. “Hi, Mr. Wolfney!”

“Please,” he bends down and hugs me, lifting me up like I’m a cardboard cutout and squeezing me so tight I can’t breathe too well before finally putting me down. “Call me Kiril!”

“Kiril,” I echo, and he smiles, showing off how every fourth tooth in his mouth is capped with gold.

His attention wanders from me and he looks over at my companion, who I gesture to come over and say hi.

“This is Zuri,” I tell him. “She goes to school with me and Cameron.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” she says as she shakes his paw.

He gives her a closed lip smile and regards her for a second. “You know, reindeer are good luck when it comes to transport.”

“Oh,” Zuri giggles, weirdly flattered. “Not me. My mother and father died accompanying a shipment for Mr. Koslov. My bloodline is cursed, I think.”

Mr. Wolfney tuts. “Unfortunate. I could have used another young, smart reindeer helper in my businesses.”

Zuri shakes her head gently. “My sister would kill me for getting into this stuff anyway.”

Introductions done, Mr. Wolfney walks us back to his stall. “So, Jamie, what can an old crook do for you?”

“I need an entire salmon.”

He gives me a side eye. “You’re eating meat, now?”

“Ms. Sondaica is going away for a week or two. I’ve decided to cook for Cameron.”

“Ahhh,” he says. “But would Alexandra not leave him some raw grade fish?”

I sigh. “She probably did, but I’m gonna bet it wasn’t salmon. And you know how Cameron doesn’t like raw food. He’s gonna starve himself or gain twenty pounds off of Züber Eats if I don’t help.”

“Yes, yes! Even as a kitten. You know, once he tried to pay me to eat his food for him? I was over at to ask Alexandra for advice on a romantic dinner, and he waits until she’s left the room to pitch his bribe. But he is just a child, yes? So you know what he tries to pay me with? Zootopian Tire bills!”

We all have a nice fit of laughter at that, and we sound like traffic. Mr. Wolfney sounds like the world’s happiest exhaust pipe. Zuri’s snickering is like screeching tires. I’m like a broken engine. Luckily our noise is lost in Fishtown Market’s crowds of stalls and customers.

But suddenly I don’t feel too good. All’s completely fine but now that I’ve finally got my hands on some meat (get your filthy mind out of the gutter) I realize that I’m going to have to find some way to cook it.

And I still have no idea what I’m doing.

* * *

It’s about three o’ clock when I arrive at 1497 Frosty Rd. and enter the stylishly modern three story house sitting pretty in the snow. I always come by with Cameron so I never need to use the spare key that Cameron’s mom made for me, but now that I have the opportunity I’m really glad for it.

Coming here feels weird with no one around, though. I try and shake the snow off of me and onto the welcome mat before I shed my jacket and step into the house proper. My hooves make an embarrassingly loud _clop_ sound on the wooden floor before I remember to find the spare pair of slippers I keep by the back door for that exact reason.

I stow the salmon in the freezer for the moment. Its dead, emotionless eye meets both of mine for a brief second and I shiver.

I’m tempted to turn on and curl up by the fireplace, lounging on my favorite of the four white couches placed strategically in the living room, but I have a job to do.

On my phone.

I can lie down on the couch while I use my phone.

I giggle to myself and gallop to the fireplace, turning on the gas and making sure it’s burning nice and steady and safe before I flop onto the couch nearest to it. I drop into the soft cotton and wriggle around, like it’s a really comfy bog of quicksand and I want to sink faster.

Okay. Business. I pull out my phone and get to searching. The recipes fly by with the minutes, and after minute ten I find the perfect thing.

Salmon wellington. Easy to get a handle on, but challenging enough to be impressive.

I love baking. I love pastry. _Cameron_  loves pastry. And he loves perfectly cooked meat.

So as long as I perfectly cook this meat, and don’t screw up on the pastry, he’s going to love it.

I sit up and breathe.

“You can do this,” I say out loud, hearing my voice echo through the house. “You can do this. You can cook perfectly. It’s just meat! It’s just fish. It’s some easy bullshit. And you can do it. And you’re going to make the best meal of Cameron’s life.”

You know what? I believe it. I believe myself.

I enjoy the simmering heat from the fireplace for a few moments longer, and sprint to the kitchen.

It’s got the whole deal. A huge island table with every sharp thing and every mixing tool and anything you could ever need for cooking that’s possibly imaginable, and the cabinets are the length of like most of the room, in labelled rows that clearly separate flour from herbs and herbs from spices and _I love it here._

First I have to do is debone the fish.

I look up a tutorial and follow it perfectly because I’m a genius. I can’t stop myself from cringing as I behead the salmon, remove its skin and put it to the side for crisps later, and then I use one of Ms. Sondaica’s extremely sharp knifes to slice into its soft flesh, carve it up and take thirty-two pinbones out of each side.

I end up with two sunset orange halves of salmon. I glance at my phone and take a few moments to read before I slice it into multiple filets, storing all but two in the freezer for tomorrow.

Now to make the puff pastry. That’s easy. I know where all of the baking ingredients are in this gigantic kitchen, and I make it so fast it’s like muscle memory, which it basically is. I can’t count the amount of times I’ve made spanokopita for me and my dad back at home.

So I have my puff pastry! And my salmon! Now to make a quick sauce and filling and then—

Shit. I forgot to pre-heat the oven.

After like fifteen minutes the oven is pre-heated and I’m ready to throw the salmon on top of the puff pastry, spoon in some of the spinach and other assorted vegetables that the recipe had me make into a little filling kind of deal and then finish folding the pastry so it completely covers the salon all nice. Then I just have to do some decorative cutting to the pastry, brush it down with some egg-wash (man, Ms. Sondaica has the _hookups)_  and then throw it into the oven.

I’ve made salmon wellington. Theoretically.

No, I’ve made it perfect. Nothing went wrong during the cooking process, the ingredients are all there, I set a timer for when to take it out...

Everything should be fine, right?

I don’t want fine, though. This has to be—god, perfect doesn’t even sound like a word anymore.

It needs to taste amazing. It has to.

It has to.

* * *

 

> _“Cameron?”_
> 
> _“You seemed a little off today.”_
> 
> _“I just, don’t feel very good.”_
> 
> _“What’s wrong?”_
> 
> _“Dunno.”_
> 
> _“Come over.”_
> 
> _“No.”_
> 
> _“Come here.”_
> 
> _“I don’t wanna.”_
> 
> _“Then tell me what’s up.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _“It’s kind of...it’s my mom’s anniversary today. I couldn’t pay attention in class. I thought I could. I think I just need to be alone. Or to be with someone for a little bit. I know that doesn’t make sense.”_
> 
> _“It does, and someone’s here. He’ll be here as long as you need.”_

* * *

 

Cameron comes home in the middle of my crying.

“Jamie?” he calls out.

I don’t answer him. Another wave of sobs wrack my body and I hide my face in my hooves, trying to be as quiet as I can.

But he’s heard me anyway. I hear his bag drop and he pads over to me in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees and putting his big, warm paws on my shoulder and rubbing them.

“What’s wrong?”

“I–I’m so _stupid,”_ I wail.

“What happened?”

“I made the salmon perfectly.”

“Is that what that smell is?” he asks. “Why are you crying?”

I turn away from him.

“Jamie,” he says.

“You’re like,” I start, stop, sob and take a shuddering breath. “I literally have like, like _no_  idea what I’m supposed to do without you and you’re like a flashlight in those horror games where you have a flashlight the whole time, but the game is hacked so you never actually run out of battery, but I’m bad at the game and I haven’t even found the first clue yet and—“

I take another breath. “God, I’m not even making sense to myself. I’m just so completely useless all the time and I just _piggyback_  off of you constantly and the _one time_  I can be useful I just, like, _do it?_ Shouldn’t it be harder than that? Am I being lazy? How am I supposed to pay you back for like every time I’ve needed you and you’ve been there for me?”

“Jamie,” he whispers. “Hush. Come here.”

I turn and crawl into his lap and it’s really incredibly gay but I do not care as of this moment. I bury my face in his chest as he wraps both arms around me.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I shake my head and sniffle in response.

“You want some chocolate?”

I shake my head again. A few tears come out fresh from my eyes. I just wanna stay here. I want to stay here and maybe die.

“You wanna...” he pauses. “You wanna get out of here?”

“No.” I reply quickly.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Because I think we should go outside, get to a Pandora’s,” he leans in, getting his mouth and tongue and warm breath as close to my ear as he can without touching it, “And see if we can maybe score some _tiger oil.”_

I scramble backwards, falling flat on my back against the floor. My eyes are wide and my entire face feels like it’s inches away from a charcoal grill.

And Cameron’s laughing his ass off.

“Very funny,” I say, a smile peeking through the edges of my frown.

“You have a hard time with the fish?” he asks, voice turning soft, tender, and slimy, kind of like the flesh of the salmon.

I shake my head.

He stands and looks at the cooking website still displayed on my phone. “You didn’t have to pick such a hard recipe.”

I shake my head. “Yes I did. Just grilling it is way too easy.”

“Look, Jamie,” he crouches back down and takes my hooves. “You don’t need to do anything for me. I don’t do stuff for you to get stuff in return. I love helping you with the crazy bullshit that pops into your head. We’re sixteen now. If I don’t want to do something, I’ll tell you, but when it’s you, Jamie, seeing you happy just makes me so...”

The word escapes his lips, but the feeling’s plain on his face.

We lean forward at the exact same time.

I forgot to crisp the salmon skins.

I stand immediately, dodging him as I walk to where they are, sitting all nasty on a plate. “I forgot something!”

Cameron’s very confused, and a little hurt. “What?”

Luckily, he’s not going to be for much longer. I turn back to him, beaming. “Go to your room and play a game or something. I still have to cook.”

Cameron begins to protest, but I walk up and put both of my hooves on his neck.

“Go,” I say softly. “I know you’re hungry. You won’t be for much longer.”

“Okay,” he whispers and smiles down at me. I save the image in my memory for later tonight. Right now there’s cooking to be doing and a tiger to be fed.

* * *

Cameron moans, smacking more of the white sauce from his lips. “Oh my goo _ood...”_

“I know,” I say. Which I don’t. I’ve never tasted it before and I never will. I’m not _that_  flexible.

He cuts into another piece of the perfectly golden brown, perfectly cooked on the outside, perfectly drizzled with sauce salmon wellington that  _I_ made from scratch, and he guides another morsel into his mouth.

“It’s really good?” I ask hopefully.

He chuffs happily, nodding his head.

“Good.”

A comfortable silence rolls over us, and I take the opportunity to pull up a chair and lie back, soaking in the warmth of the house and my best friend and the feeling I get from the fact that he’s enjoying something I made, and that for once, I did pretty good.

Except, well.

I _did_  do pretty good, right?

Like, an impressive level of pretty good? I mean, I haven’t tasted the food, but like...

“What, you’re not gonna ask me out?”

“Pardon?” asks Cameron, turning to me as he swallows another bite.

“I said, do you want some more hollandaise sauce or is it fine as is?”

“No, it’s perfect!”

“Okay,” I cough. “Cool.”


End file.
